


onesto, la mia isola di poveglia, me ne frego

by amurderof



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-09
Updated: 2010-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:31:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amurderof/pseuds/amurderof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Italy twists back, to find Vittorio, to find where he has gotten to and to tell him that Italy tried, that the woman did not want what Italy wants and that is not his fault. And Vittorio will agree, and they will share their notes, they will see what is useful. See what he — they can let contribute to Italy and his people and the greatness that is promised to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	onesto, la mia isola di poveglia, me ne frego

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hetalia 1920s anthology over on LJ. The caveat for this is that I cared a lot more about feel and mood than actual historical (and geographical) fact, so please don't garrote me. I hope you enjoy it regardless! And I'm also sorry about the bad fascism pun, except for how I'm not. Not at all.

Black black black it's so monotonous so the same and sometimes it's even different shades of black, but so many of them aren't black at all but too dark to be called anything else. If Italy could mix the colors to make all of the blacks he'd need reds and greens and blues and even yellows, and all he has is solid wood underneath his fingertips and sea underneath his feet, underneath the wood underneath his feet. _Il Sogno_ is a beautiful boat Italy assumes, because they wouldn't let him get on any boat that wasn't and he's sure when the sun is up tomorrow and the world is shades of red yellow blue then he will see how lovely it is; but now it is black like the sea is black like the sky is black like the island.

"Vittorio, it's all right that we left so late, it's so close," he shouts over the sound of the sea against the wood under the whole of him. He can feel the island, pressure at the back of his left ankle, a dull throbbing that matches the dull swelling of the waves. He has not visited in years, hundreds of years, because it is an unpleasant place, the back of his left ankle; it is a place where they left a part to save the whole, where the soil is rich and beautiful and perfect for vineyards because of the corpses, left and buried and burned. When he removes his shoes and his fingers slide over the skin there, there is nothing no feeling but sometimes it is cold to the touch or rough like a new scab. Maybe now that he is visiting he will be able to feel it again.

"Vittorio, can you see the island?"

Italy pushes himself up onto the tips of his shoes, opens his eyes wide to take in all of the light that the heavens are giving to him, and tries to see. Vittorio is going to take notes, to gather information because the island has been in disrepair, and his people will give everything for the state, and there are buildings to be put to use. It is good good going with Vittorio, and when they dock Italy smiles wide enough to make up for the sun's sleeping.

Vittorio does not talk much because all of his words come out the end of his pencil instead of his mouth, and Italy only tries to look at his notes once and then doesn't any more, because they are full of numbers and lists and Italy likes all of those things but he'd much rather sit with Vittorio's notebook and sketch out the curve of the archway that leads into the first wide room, would prefer to shade in the spaces where there is no sunlight with a heavy hand.

They are alone on the island, the two of them and Vittorio's notebook and _Il Sogno_, and Italy leaves Vittorio on the dock. They left too late and that was all Italy's fault: he wanted lunch and then he wanted to lay down for a bit and then it was time for dinner and Vittorio didn't even complain and so it is dark out now, but Italy doesn't trip once, walks into the first building he comes to and touches the door, presses his fingers into the grooves of the wood.

He moves through the cobwebs and the dust, and there are no spiders and that's good because he does not like them he does not like how he cannot tell which way they are going to move when they do, and he does not know where Vittorio is but he, he now stands in the middle of a white dirty room on the second floor. The stairs were old and it was hard to see, because it is late, but he did not stumble. It is late, and they had to leave today and it is Italy's fault that they are there when it is so dark, and Italy knows that they probably wanted him out of the way, he probably wanted Italy to go so that he could talk to Brother, who gets so mad whenever they talk and if Italy is there it is so much worse. So Italy's leaving means that Brother will be. Will be.

"What will Romano be?" Italy asks, and he hears footsteps and turns to make Vittorio tell him but it is not Vittorio and Italy does not know what to say. There is a thickness in his throat and his voice cannot get past it and Italy raises his right hand, presses his fingers to his forehead chest left right shoulders and does not move more because a woman is standing just there, a woman who was once beautiful, had hair the color of the sea as the sun rises, he can tell, and he stays still because there is black where red once was, burnt black.

She is close, touches him with her cool fingertips, walks her fingers up his shoulders and presses them against the back of his neck. Her touch is the chunks of ice that Brother throws at him, that he fishes out of his limoncello in the summer, that Italy retrieves from the folds of his shirt and holds against his cheeks and forehead and throat.

But it is her fingers, and there is no limoncello and Brother is not here, and he wants to tell her that she is cold, that she could borrow the gloves he has in his satchel back on the boat, that he would not miss them, but then she is gone. The dust is laid out thick across the floorboards, undisturbed. His neck does not feel as if it were ever so cold. There is nothing left from her against him.

He steps forward, his shoes making marks where hers should have made marks, and he reaches out with his fingers stretched from his hands from his arm. The whole of him reaches forward, for her missing chill, because if she advances he must follow, she is his and together they are powerful and one, but she has disappeared.

Italy twists back, to find Vittorio, to find where he has gotten to and to tell him that Italy tried, that the woman did not want what Italy wants and that is not his fault. And Vittorio will agree, and they will share their notes, they will see what is useful. See what he — they can let contribute to Italy and his people and the greatness that is promised to him. He will find Vittorio and they will talk and there will be no woman and —

A little boy is standing against the wall across from Italy, is standing with the backs of his shoes touching the baseboard and his hands touching his sides, his palms flat against the seams of his trousers. The backs of his hands are pink, circles of pink like his mother has dipped the rim of a glass into morning sunshine and stamped his skin, but Italy remembers that color and it is not warm, only the fever is warm but the ring is.

The little boy steps away from the wall with his left foot, and his right follows it, and it is as though Italy is watching a moving picture that is missing so many frames in the middle, the illusion is ruined, the boy is ten meters away and now he is only two.

He is reaching towards Italy.

All of Italy jerks away, except he was told to be honorable and that is all there is, if I retreat, kill me, and so he stills and the boy is will be warm, not cold, not the warmth of the coast of Amalfi and Brother's panzerotti di ricotta but of white masks with hooked noses and pyres constructed for flesh. It has been years but Italy remembers, it has not been so many that he doesn't remember. The boy's fingers are red reaching red and he is close but his fingers are dripping, like he is melting but it is cold outside and in, there is no heat but for the heat of his fingers bubbling like maialino allo spiedo and the red is black is white because there is nothing, nothing on children's fingers but centimeters of human and as the tips of the bones of his fingers of his hand not a hand brush against the edge of Italy's waistcoat, Italy shouts and he will be killed, he wants to run, and the boy is gone.

Italy is alone in the room. The dust has not been disturbed and his waistcoat is clean. He did not flee, and he is not dead.

Italy breathes, and he touches his waistcoat where there were dead fingers and his fingers are alive, are earth and stone. He breathes and the air is hot and stale and sticks to the sides of his mouth and he feels nothing at the back of his left ankle.

He is all right. Strong. They could not hurt him, even if they wanted to.

Vittorio enters through the doorway, and his eyes do not match the room. It is too red and the red is dripping down the walls, pooling on the floorboards like discarded swatches of tulle except it is still moving, slowly, as though —

Italy blinks, and the walls are white again, used to be white and are now speckled with dirt and old stains, old black stains. "Black," Italy says, and moves across the room, takes Vittorio up in his arms. Black is a good color. Vittorio's hair is black. "Vittorio, my dearest Vittorio, did you see her, did you see the beautiful woman? She went away, and the dust took her place. And there was a boy, and he was unhappy. But she did not want to come with me and he was upset and it wasn't my fault."

Vittorio is pale like the woman like the boy and he is shaking, he is breathing too quickly for a man not in love. Italy touches his face, his shoulder.

"I am all right, Vittorio," Italy says, and Vittorio has seen things, he is telling Italy of a man who yelled at him and told him to leave, and Italy touches Vittorio, calms him, of course he calms him, and Vittorio's breathing slows and he grows still in Italy's arms.

"It's all right," Italy says, "there is no need to be afraid. I wanted to be afraid but there was no need, I stood my ground and I did not retreat and they could not hurt me. They could not, because I was strong. They cannot hurt us when we are right. And Vittorio," and Italy takes Vittorio's face between the both of his hands, "we will go back and Il Presidente Mussolini will be pleased with you and with me, because we are strong."

And Italy pulls away, and he straightens his waistcoat and brushes at the cobwebs that cling at his black shirt and he doesn't feel anything anymore at the back of his left ankle.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. In 1922 the island of Poveglia, off the coast of Venice, was converted into a sanitarium; until this point the island had been left largely abandoned since its last use as a quarantine station and plague pit for victims of the Black Death. Per popular legend, Poveglia is one of the most haunted places in the world.  
> 2\. Also in 1922, Benito Mussolini and the Blackshirts, a Fascist paramilitary group, marched on Rome and staged a coup d'état that led to Mussolini's being established as Italy's Prime Minister. (Note: the phrase "me ne frego" [trans. "I don't give a damn"] was a Blackshirt motto.)  
> 3\. Glossary of Italian used: onesto, la mia isola di poveglia, me ne frego: (loosely translated) honestly, my island of poveglia, I don't give a damn; Il Sogno: The Song; panzerotti di ricotta: a Calabrian ravioli; maialino allo spiedo: roast suckling pig; Il Presidente (del Consiglio dei Ministri): Prime Minister.


End file.
